


A Small Pile of Lost Stones

by stevieraebarnes



Category: DCU (Comics)
Genre: Angst and Fluff, Canon Divergence, Civilian Life, Cottagecore, Food, Getting Together, Happy Ending, M/M, Sometimes you gotta leave Gotham and live your pastoral life to heal and fall in love or something, Travel, mention of wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-02
Updated: 2020-09-02
Packaged: 2021-03-06 14:35:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26030521
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stevieraebarnes/pseuds/stevieraebarnes
Summary: Dick and Jason pass out after an intense verbal fight that's been years in the making only to wake up and find they have, 1) applied to become stewards of a medieval Italian monastery, and 2) signed on for a nine year period. Together.
Relationships: Dick Grayson/Jason Todd
Comments: 29
Kudos: 81
Collections: JayDick Summer Exchange 2020





	A Small Pile of Lost Stones

**Author's Note:**

  * For [forgettheghosts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/forgettheghosts/gifts).



On the night of the yelling match in the Cave below Wayne Manor—it was Dick and Jason this time—the other Bats carefully moved around the maelstrom of angry words and newly excavated hurts knowing precisely how to busy themselves. They didn't bother locking away weapons, something the Bats did when it was Tim and Damian who fought, or that one time with Steph and Harper when their own escalation had rapidly devolved into a demonstration of skill. This argument was instead self-contained to their bubble; vicious words spiraling in a gravitational pull around their masses, that Tim simply muttered, "Let's find something better to watch on TV" and left them to it.

What brought on the argument proved the usual: old wounds picked at and worried until they bled again. If truth be told, the two older Bats shared enough good times to forge a camaraderie and trust, but enough bad times to live under perpetual strain. They knew how to laugh with each other over the many ridiculous situations they found themselves in. And when they did share those moments, the rarity of them permeated the usually tense-filled vigilante missions with bright spots to look back on fondly.

But they raged at each other too.

The Bats were a motley crew of adults, some vague approximations of teenagers, and one honest to God child. They wore armor and weapons the same way everyday people wore makeup and shoes. Without their masks and dominos, the Bats appeared indecently exposed to the cruel world they fought against. And it left them defenseless to each other, when their hurts and insecurities were much more visible.

Dick carried a bitterness with him he could trace back to the day he outgrew Bruce. He knew he shouldn’t carry it at all. He had been the one who left. Bruce wanted a partner and Dick couldn’t be that for him. So he understood, logically. Mostly. But the first time he heard Bruce call out for Robin and not mean him, to hear him say how the kid had raised to such heights despite his surroundings, his upbringing; Dick forced himself to clench his teeth and refuse to acknowledge how his own tragic backstory has been pitted against some street rat and found wanting. The fuck?

It wasn’t until his brief stint at college that Dick heard what he had long felt voiced by someone else.

He’d walked into his TA’s shared room, full of stale steel furniture, for office hours. He didn’t need any help, but he knew showing interest would get him farther than if he isolated himself.

“Hey,” he’d called out, and the TA had looked up, put on a more composed face, and said “Hey” back.

But Dick had noticed the small look of anguish and asked, “You okay, Charlie?”

Charlie the TA sighed. “Yeah, it’s a small thing. Just disappointing.”

“Ah, I’m well versed in micro-disappointments.”

Charlie laughed.

“My old mentor, the one I had as an undergrad, took on a new student.”

Dick had given an understanding nod. “Ah. Gotcha.”

“And I mean, I left," the TA continued. "I’m the one who left. For my Master’s everyone agreed that it’s better to work with more professors so you learn different styles. So even though I loved my undergrad mentor, I asked another professor to work with me for my Master’s.

"And now my mentor’s got a new student. Another undergrad like I was. He’s been with her for six months and all I hear about is how smart he is and how capable and how he’s taken over my damn job that I had with the group.

"And the clincher?" Dick's TA had barreled on, "I found out today that my mentor’s finally publishing a paper on work that took three years to do and I was involved with half of it. But because it’s being published now, the new student’s name is going on. Not mine.”

“Shit. That’s awful.”

“He’s been there six months and he gets to be a published author as an undergrad. It’s ridiculous, you know?”

“Yeah,” Dick had said in that tiny office, as the words sank in and described him wholly, “I know.”

  
\--  
  


Jason had known the second he walked into the Manor he was going to live with a ghost.

“This was Master Dick’s chambers” and “This was Master Dick’s favorite instrument to play” and "Don't sit there, Dick might come home" surrounded him in the halls of the estate. Below, in the Cave, Jason was going to scream if he heard “Let’s learn this new move; watch how Dick twists…” one more time.

He was faced with the golden child everywhere he went. There was no escape. Everything he did, Dick had done first, had done better. He felt like he lived in a Daphne du Maurier novel as a nameless replacement for a ghost whom the house still served.

Despite the looming shadow of his perfect predecessor, Jason had continued to slip on the Robin colors and fight the self-aggrandizing criminals of Gotham. He was free, he was alive, he got to punch people in the face. It was awesome.

“Great job, Robin,” Bruce would say. “Let’s get back to the Cave for some snacks. You’ve earned it. Alfred will probably have some peanut butter cookies. Dick used to love peanut butter cookies.”

Jason seethed.

  
\--

In the Cave, now, at the time of the shouting, Jason and Dick's fight consumed them as they raged, concentrating them into ingots of anger.

Dick flung his arms to the rhythm of his words, sharp jabs that left prickling wounds. “You think you’re some hardened street criminal doling out justice but you’re really just too sensitive and overly emotional!”

“And you think you’re the golden child full of sunshine and rainbows but you’re cold and calculated and you’d plot someone’s demise if they looked at you wrong!”

They circled each other closer. “Unbelievable!” Dick threw his head up in disbelief. “That’s such a wide miss on my characterization.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so and you know it. And you don’t know anything about me!”

“Not for lack of trying!”

“No, it’s exactly for lack of trying! What? A couple of aborted hang out sessions and you get to say you know me? Get to wipe your hands clean of not being involved before I died?? Or reaching out when I came back? Where were you, Dick?!?”

Dick pushed closer into Jason’s space, their chests heaving, their fingers accidentally brushing when they became more animated. “I’ve been here this whole goddamn time! Here for the mission, here where I was needed! I had a team and villains to face in so many places, places I’d never even heard of before! But no! I had responsibilities! A cowl to wear and a boy to mentor! It’s not always about you Jason! Just admit that we don’t work and that’s okay!”

“But we could! That’s what drives me mad! We’re way better than these kids! If we could work together, we wouldn’t lose anymore. But you can’t even bring yourself to fucking try!

Jason shook his head, prickled by the accusations, and continued. "I’ve been all over too, you know. But I’m the one who takes care of Gotham. You’re hardly ever here and when you are, it’s all anyone can talk about.” He scoffed, “ _Yay Nightwing’s here!_ is the reception you always get. But I’ve been here the entire time, enduring the sideways looks and the whispered gossip. I’m constantly reminded every second I spend here that I’m the black sheep of this family and you will always be the appointed golden child. When I partnered with Bruce to learn to defend Gotham from crime, I wasn’t signing up for goddamn sibling dynamics! I’m not a fucking middle child, Dick!”

“Well it wasn’t easy for me either! Yeah, okay, maybe you’re right about the sunshine and rainbows but fuck you! I work my ass off trying to be there for everyone, and these days, that includes you. So get over yourself.”

Jason jabbed Dick in the chest. “You get over yourself!”

“Are you kidding me right now?”

On and on and on it went: the argument, the hurt, the accusations; until the realization of the source of their anger crashed down on them. It hit Jason like a freight train and he visibly slumped.

“It’s this fucking place," he said. "This Cave. This Manor. The shadow of the bat may have brought us into each other’s awareness but it tainted us too.”

They stood there in a charged quiet, too close to each other but far away in their thoughts.

“How do we fix this then? For you and me?” Dick’s voice still held anger, but it sounded resigned. “How do we end this never ending cycle and don’t just say it’s on me.”

“Then don’t expect me to just have an answer to your very big question. But I want to fix this. I do.” Jason continued to close the space between them. “You have to believe that. Even when no one else believes me, you do. So please. Know that I want things to change.”

“We should have our own Manor, then. Away from them,” Dick offered.

“We’d run things so much better.”

“Well, I mean, except for Alfred who does the impossible, but we’d do such a better job than Bruce!”

“Yeah, Bruce can fuck off! Time for our own headquarters.” Jason watched Dick step back from their violent tete-a-tete, pull out his phone and scroll through whatever’s on the screen. “Whatcha doing?”

Dick said after a pause, “Looking for our new headquarters.”

“Make it something better than this shithole.”

Dick gave a delirious laugh, the high of expunged emotions crashing all around him. “Of course,” he managed. But he could barely focus on the lit screen he held in front of his face.

They passed out from their anger an hour later, only just making it up the stairs into the Manor proper where they collapsed on the nearest sofas in the library. Dick’s phone blinked a notification into the darkness, a confirmation email, but Dick swiped it away in a daze as he drifted off to sleep.

The rest of the Bats found Dick and Jason asleep in the library. They stood there, transfixed or maybe frightened by their tranquility only found in such a deep sleep. The Bats stepped back to let the two men sleep on. They moved past the ugly words spewed down in the Cave none of them had wanted to be privy to. They hoped things had settled back to normal for all.

A month later, Alfred holds a thick envelope that seals their fate covered in marked up Italian parcel stamps. It's addressed to Messrs Richard Grayson and Jason Todd of Wayne Manor.

  
\--  
  


Richard Grayson meets Simone Maffeo in the late morning at the board of tourism office in Rome. He's tall; taller than Dick by a few inches and wears a black leather jacket with matching polished shoes. His face is expressive — perpetually enthused with every bit of information Dick offers and pays back with a compliment and a laugh. Dick thinks the man is probably really good at his job. Simone is amazed at Dick's young age, his ability to speak Italian, his physique, and also his money.

"What an amazing nine years are ahead for you!" Simone says and Dick tries very hard to not appear shaken to his core.

"Right. Nine years." _Nine? Years?_

"I'll keep in check to make sure everything's working out. You can option for additional nine year contracts when it gets closer to the end of the first stewardship lease."

Dick staves off the panic with a passable, "Sounds good," to the thought of nine years spent in a mysterious heritage building.

"I believe this property has the option for a total of fifty years! Imagine that!"

"I'm definitely imagining."

"Your application names another person. Jason Todd. Is he here?"

"No, he's not."

"Ahh okay no problem. He can join anytime. Plenty to do. Italy is giving you a fantastic property, by the way. The last couple who came in only got a guard tower. And one person wanted a farmhouse from the 1700s but got a 1920s parcel office instead."

"Honestly, I'm happy with anything as long as I get to use my two hands."

Simone gives an appreciative laugh. "Perfect enthusiasm, Mr. Grayson. Though I fear I must mention that for much of the renovations we prefer some tasks be hired out to professionals."

"Of course. I won't go beyond my own expertise."

"Phew! I'd hate to have to reject you. Anyways! Here's your property for the next nine years."

Simone hands Dick a file folder. Inside is a cover page with a photograph of a soft yellow stone estate set atop a sprawling hill, a small town set at the hill's feet. There are rounded towers and a courtyard and Dick isn't quite sure if he's processing what's before him.

"It's beautiful," he says.

"Yes. Very. You got a good one. Your application listed two young, strapping men of means and experience. We saved you a jewel. Don't fuck it up!"

Dick stares at him.

"Shit, that wasn't very professional. But you get it, yeah? Let's go get your ticket. There’s a train in twenty minutes.” He then stands up and shuffles Dick away from his desk, out of the building, and onto the crowded cobbled streets of Rome. He points back in the direction of the train depot. 

"You're going to Umbria," he announces.  
  
  
\--

Dick steps off the train in Orvieto less than two hours later and hires a car for the rest of the journey. When he finally arrives at the monastery, he barely remembers to thank his driver.

He stands there, mesmerized and impressed by the architecture and craftsmanship. The impressive stone building is fanned by laurel trees on a small slope in a sprawling valley, sheltered by the Apennine Mountains. The city he’d seen in the file is compact in a way that promises a small but bustling community; an arrangement of colorful buildings and winding paths between the infrastructure. It’s beautiful and picturesque and Dick hopes he can offer something useful to the town. He grabs his two small bags and closes the door to the car, saying goodbye.

Inside, he wanders the halls, the rooms, running his fingers over rough surfaces and fine details. But there’s work to be done too, including major renovations. Collapsed walls, crumbling stonework, and what appears to be stolen decorative bits: hardware and lighting and window dressings missing. The tourism board gave Dick a list of artisans and several trades workers to contact for specialty jobs. He places his hands on his hips in the empty and imposing space, turning around to take it all in. He stands there for minutes, hours, telling himself over and over again, _he can do this._

The sound of tires on the crushed rock driveway makes a quiet crunching sound and breaks Dick out of his mild panic. He walks towards the front entrance expecting the driver to return and Dick mentally checks back to if he could’ve forgotten anything in the car. He remembers grabbing his bags. That was all he’d brought with him. One a soft duffel and the other a 45 litre backpack. Both fit in the overhead bin for the flight.

There’s a knock on the door before he reaches it and it takes Dick another minute to answer the call. Whoever waits does so patiently, instead of beating their fist on the door some more. And when Dick swings open the door, it’s worth the wait.

Jason Todd stands there on the landing, his own duffel slung across his shoulder.

“I’d like to help,” he says.

Dick steps aside and lets him in.

\--

They explore the estate together with a feeling like they’re sneaking into forbidden places. Rooms bleed into more rooms; some with low ceilings and narrow windows, some with vaulted ceilings and Roman arches and grand windows. Jason and Dick walk the Benedictine floors, sometimes rough terra cotta tile beneath their feet and sometimes smooth marble. There are a few rooms featuring wide wood planks with a peeling stain curling on top. The floors provide a timeline of when certain parts of the monastery were built and under whose stewardship.

Some of the rooms are furnished with intricate pieces or hastily built wooden pieces that have fallen to rot. A puddle sits on the floor of a long empty hall, the rust from a broken nail marbling the water beneath a ceiling covered in faded art depictions and hanging lampworks. One room strangely features a flat pack couch and coffee table courtesy of Ikea. The men move on.

They find two furnished bed chambers and a clean, working toilet — the only preparation that has been made for them. They put down their meager belongings and get to work.

They decide to wash floors and linens. They pull down drapes and remove protective furniture sheets and pile load after load in the kitchen where the washing machine waits for them. Dick opens windows and Jason preps a washing solution for the wood floors with vegetable vinegar he found. They scrub with the acrid liquid and cloths found in the kitchen on their hands and knees. By the time they’ve finished a single room, night has fallen. They sit back on their heels and don’t speak. They’ve barely spoken since Jason arrived, instead barging straight into their tasks.

Dick changes that when he asks abruptly, “Why are you here?”

Jason shrugs. “You’re here so I’m here.” 

They don’t say anything after that. Dick leaves the answer to billow around them until he stands up and walks out of the room. Jason can hear his footsteps grow fainter and fainter and then silent altogether as he leaves the estate.

Jason scrubs some more.

  
\--  
  


Dick comes back two hours later with dinner and a pressure washer. 

Jason doesn’t ask.

He watches Dick cut up cured meats and smoked cheese and a loaf of bread in the kitchen for them. They pile the charcuterie on top of each bit in small stacks to eat before they leave the newfound comfort of the kitchen to grab all the towels they can find. They practice different wash settings with the pressure washer on the tiled rooms, then take turns with the soothing spray of water forcing decades of dirt and grime away. A couple minutes in, laughter rings throughout the stone hallways.

\--

“You gonna hog the bathroom?”

Dick opens the door at the words and flashes a wetted toothbrush. He moves back to the sink with slow, deliberate steps.

Jason joins him and plunks a toiletry bag on the countertop. He pulls out his own toothbrush, wets the bristles and squeezes a dab of toothpaste on top. They stand there, scrubbing their teeth, taking turns to spit in the one sink. They’re still not making conversation, but their actions are comfortingly familiar and they go through the motions without care or concern.

\--

They keep washing. They make up beds and dust surfaces and beat hand woven rugs as gently as they can before realizing the textiles were crafted to survive more than Dick and Jason were giving. They march outside and whack the hand crafted carpets against the exterior of their new home and bathe themselves in golden dust motes. The sunlight works its magic on them and the two men open every available window, feeling the warmth and slight breeze join them for company. 

And a routine sets in. 

In the mornings and evenings they take to gardening, pulling weeds and pruning back bushes. Dick has already made friends with the landscaper in the town, the one who loaned him the pressure washer and promises them a tour of her nursery. She has already set aside a supply of low impact ornamental plants for them. During the heat of the day they treat themselves to something cold to drink and walk around the estate inventorying everything and noting the condition found in.

Simone visits after a couple weeks to find out Dick and Jason’s business plan, to which they simultaneously agree on the spot to work on an orchard for the grounds. When Simone asks what kind of orchard, Dick says, “Stone fruit” the same time Jason offers, “Peaches.”

Simone just nods.

“And what will you do with these stone fruits?”

“Sell the fruits and provide an outdoor experience for those who want it. We want people to feel welcome to visit during the daytime and to maybe use the property for events,” Jason says. “This place is right here, we want people to use it.”

“Good,” Simone agrees. “Don’t forget what this is all for. Bringing tourism back into this section of Italy. There’s good history for the people to enjoy here: Italian, Umbrian, Etruscan. I look forward to seeing your orchards!” He clasps his hands together and leans forward in confidence. “Let me know if this isn’t working out, though. We got loads of applicants so turnover is easy right now.” He claps them both on the shoulders as a parting gift and makes his way out of the monastery, now filled with ladders, work tools, and drop cloths.

Dick and Jason nod at that, silently considering to themselves if that’s a logical avenue for this half baked idea they are now living due to stubbornness.

They remain stubborn and don’t say anything.

A week later, the men have eight peach trees, eight apricot trees, and eight nectarine trees grafted into disease resistant stalks and then planted behind the monastery along the hillside. They install drip lines for efficient watering practices. The woman with the nursery, the landscaper Serena, kept pitching the mantra _a struggling fruit is a delicious fruit_ to them throughout the entire process. They trust her judgement. They end up only losing three of the original twenty-four.

  
\--

Jason bakes bread.

He massages and punches dough into bianca bread, into thick pugliese loaves, into aromatic focaccias. He dresses them up sometimes with rosemary from their garden, sometimes with other herbs. One day, Dick comes home with freshly minced beef and Jason takes all of one look before deciding to bake bolillos. Umbrian tortas leave something to be desired so Jason reaches back to the Americas for closely structured rolls. He makes a split-second decision to make them smaller than normal.

While the small rolls cool on racks on the counter, Dick shapes the meat gently into loose patties. Jason wanders back out to the garden to forge for transplanted lettuce in a pot. Onions and tomatoes are already in a bowl on the kitchen island. He trades Dick lettuce for the patties, and heads back outside where an old brick forno is.

The aroma of the fresh baked bread brings one of their first visitors.

It’s Serena, lured up the path not by landscaping business this time. “What are you making?” she asks, gesturing to the sprawl of ingredients before them.

“Sliders,” Dick says, as Jason re-enters from the back carrying a platter of fire-roasted burgers. They assemble the sliders and offer their guest one to try.

She grabs a proffered slider and takes a bite, then makes an appreciative sound. “Mmm, you guys did a good job. I’d stop by more often if I knew I’d be treated to dinner.”

Dick and Jason take bites of their own, thinking.

  
\--

They cook more meals together.

Braised pork with balsamic vinegar from Modena and roasted red potatoes. Grechetto white wine chicken alla Cacciatore served atop thick squares of polenta. Beef brisket stuffed into cannelloni with spinach and burrata. Farro mixed with greens and basil pesto and grated pecorino with squeezed lemon. Shaved raw Brussels sprouts with orange zest and chopped walnuts and freshly grated Grana Padano with a vinaigrette. They pair these labors of love with gifts their neighbors bring them: wine. Rich, tangy Sangiovese. Bold, plummy Sagrantino. And so much Chianti and Prosecco. They cook more than they need and offer plates to visitors from town who walk up the sloping hillside to take a peek at the grounds. Serena walks up almost every day to chat, often with friends in tow to tour the grounds and ask what the two men are concocting in the kitchens for the day. Even Simone finds himself lingering on his board approved visits.

And when Dick and Jason sit down at a table to reap their rewards, as the food and wine flows more freely, so do the words between them.

Jason takes the leap one day and says, “I hated that Bruce held you up as an impossible standard. Before I even knew you, I couldn’t stand you.”

Dick doesn’t so much as look taken aback as he does thoughtful. Pensive. Careful.

He puts his glass down.

“I hated that Bruce cared more about your success than mine,” Dick offers.

“If Bruce cared about my success, he would’ve found me before I blew up.”

“And Bruce would’ve fought harder against sacrificing me to the murder machine.”

Jason mulls that over.

They continue to sit there. They’re in the room next to the kitchen seated at a table nestled under three massive windows where they can watch their fledgling orchard burn with rosy glow in the fading sun. They will come to love their orchards, to take great pride in their work. Their grove of stone fruit will expand from that first count of twenty-four. And they will come to enjoy the sights of each other between the rows, hips swaying with the plucked-fresh fruit born of their labors.

“Hey Dick?” Jason interrupts, now. He sets the spoon down for the soup they’re enjoying, the night air turning chilly with autumn.

“Yeah?”

“What if we don’t go back to Gotham?”

“You want to stay here?” Dick asks.

“You’re here so I’m here.”

“Why do you care to be where I am?”

“Because the moment I realized Bruce had pitted us against each other, even if accidentally, I learned you were actually someone I wanted to get to know. For real. With my own lens.”

Dick sops up soup with a torn chunk of Jason’s bread of the day, a chewy one with large air pockets. He takes a bite, thinking. Then he flicks his gaze up to meet Jason’s. “It’s nice to learn about each other without the warp of Gotham.”

“Yeah,” Jason says, matching Dick’s tone. It’s light, but it sounds like a promise anyways.

They pause again, lost in thought over what their lives have become.

Jason adds, “Just gotta keep asking Alfred to send the good baking powder.”

\--

They garden. They rebuild. They sand and stain old furniture and hire retrofitters and engineers to fix the larger, more dangerous issues to Simone's approval. They learn things about each other, too. They like to sing loud rock ballads amongst the Roman arches, though Dick has a preference for singing the words wrong on purpose. It riles Jason up at first until he succumbs to laughter.

After long days of work and planning and cooking and relaxing, Dick and Jason decompress in the night. They walk back to the hall where their bedrooms are. Dick will remark on a new found issue to fix while Jason brushes his teeth and slips into a loose pair of athletic shorts. Jason gets a new idea for the monastery he wants to explore and explains his thought process while Dick readies himself for bed. That often includes a shower but the running water doesn’t deter Jason once he gets on a roll. He just projects his voice louder so Dick can hear him over the spray. He follows a clean Dick out of the bathroom and into his bedroom, where they both climb into bed. Jason asks Dick’s opinion and the two fall asleep together planning the next day.

They don’t think anything of the bed sharing.

\--

Dick finds Jason hunched over a thick baseboard in the dining hall. They’ve fixed drafty window sills and repaired broken flooring and successfully rewired a few electrical boxes. But today, Jason is before the eyesore they’ve been debating how to tackle for months: a large expanse of wall with three deep, wide cracks spidering across the plaster.

“Whatcha think, Jay?”

“I’m thinking of contacting an artist.”

\--

The stucco artist tugs her canvas drop cloth against the wall and usurps the floor. She gives the bucket of material one last stir, then scoops a heaping portion onto a trowel. There’s a heady atmosphere of chaos — the cusp of reinvention and plunging into the artistic unknown — so different than the Cave Dick and Jason had been trained in, had argued in, had cared for each other in their own unhealthy ways. They give Fabiana, the artist, space to watch that first smear of a wide, even layer against the cracked wall. It feels like a declaration of commitment for more work to be done, to a hopefully happy ending for the space. 

After a few more applications, Jason braves the question: “Can I help?”

She tells him yes and points to a second trowel in a large bin she’d hauled in with her when she arrived. She explains how to start in the middle of the wall and work out, moving to the right, just as she is doing from the left. Jason spreads his own broad arc of stucco.

Dick watches the two of them work; coating the damaged expanse for a fresco. They dip and reach and spread and make new; their attention on the wall in front of them. The artist compliments Jason on his regular, even strokes and attention to detail. He tells her she should’ve seen him in his last career and she teases him with guesses of what he used to be. He laughs when she suggests an accountant.

Dick watches Jason’s muscled back work to fix the damage and disuse of this neglected building.

 _You’re here so I’m here,_ he thinks.

**Author's Note:**

> Dear, dear Ash! Civilian life jaydick gives me so much life and I had, uh, too much fun with this idea xD I hope you enjoyed this read and thank you SO MUCH for the prompts!
> 
> And so many thanks to the most amazing beta reader, empires, whose editing skills, support, and cheerleading makes the writing process so much better. <3
> 
> The idea for this came from that 2017 call for caretakers of historic Italian properties, where people could lease these buildings for free as long as they fixed/maintained the estates and built some kind of business with it. And also from that buzzfeed article about Kristen Bell and Dax Sheppard blacking out after having a raging argument. I mean, in real life I'm kinda ??? but I liked the premise for fic so *cries in shame*


End file.
